


And ye shall find

by MrsCaulfield



Series: Divine Intervention [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, An ode to White Suit Crowley, Anal Sex, Azi thanks God for hot sex, Aziraphale's thirst is off the charts, Blasphemy, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Clothed Sex, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, Hedonist Aziraphale (Good Omens), I mean shouldnt we all, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Religious Elements, Top Crowley (Good Omens), comedy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28834752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: His entire life, Aziraphale has always been unbelievablyblessed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Divine Intervention [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123709
Comments: 72
Kudos: 314
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Top Crowley Library





	And ye shall find

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could even begin to explain why I wrote this, but there's so many reasons.
> 
> But first and foremost, I wanted to write some smut as an ode to my absolute favorite Crowley look: White Suit Crowley (aka caterer Crowley), then I got a burst of inspiration and turned it into a bit of crack??
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta Stef (@flamingbentley)! Also to my Devil May Care co-author Courtney (@starrysheen) because I'm such a Service Top Crowley *weakling* and she excels more in Dom Crowley characterization, which helped me immensely in this fic. 
> 
> And lastly to my kink-compatible fic-authors-with-benefits Arvy (@Phoenix_Soar) who once dared me to collect a bunch of my wildest thirst tweets about Crowley and put them into a crackfic for a thirsty Aziraphale. I hope you're satisfied with this monstrosity. HAHA

His entire life, Aziraphale has always been unbelievably _blessed._

Blessed with money. With status. With a highborn family. With academic and professional success. With a face akin to a beacon of light, sunshine streaming down on hot desert. With a becoming character, one which needs not at all strive to gain trust. Trust comes naturally to him, with a single flash of a soft, illuminant beam. Aziraphale would be the first to admit that he is thoroughly, immensely blessed.

But he is well-aware of his privilege, that as much as he considers his own formidable work ethic to have been a significant part of his success, credit must be given where credit is due. Not all people are blessed enough to be half as much blessed as he is, and without those blessings, he is practically nothing. 

So he does what he must, and prays. He prays and exalts and sends praises to Her, She through whom all things are made possible. He meditates on the Word, day and night, and talks to Her in the strictest confidence of his deepest sentiments. It is his refuge and comfort. His source of joy. Unfailingly, and multiple times daily. The blessings come still, but he does not yet have everything. So he keeps praying and praising, talking and confiding. He takes delight in it. He has to, for he does not yet have it all. _Delight yourself in the Lord, and She will grant unto you the desires of your heart_ —and to that promise he clings. So he prays and praises.

It was sometime in his mid-twenties when he realised that he was unbelievably blessed. Blessed with plump curves, soft, built to be held and grabbed and caressed. Blessed with a nimble tongue and relaxed throat that learned quickly around the head of a glorious cock. Blessed with a voracious appetite that ran fire and blood to his own heightened senses, one that did not wither even with age. He's fast approaching fifty now, but he certainly doesn't look it, in both appearance and vigour. Blessed in multiple respects, but certainly not all of them.

His carnal delights have been good, for the most part. Not exactly mind blowing, but perfectly satisfactory. His lovers were good. They revered him, worshiped and delighted in his body. There was the occasional fling, promising little more than a quick fuck in a shady bathroom stall. There were serious relationships—just a few, but utterly serious they were. There was lovely Jonathan, who taught the hermeneutics seminars he attended weekly, and was devoted to Aziraphale for all of eight years until the latter finally agreed to go to bed with him. He was so kind. He looked at Aziraphale like he hung the stars. Like he never did any wrong. Aziraphale had never met anyone like that before, who would love him with the unconditional love that only She deserved—and he loved it. He clung to it, and for a year it was good. Nothing extraordinary, but good. That was until fourteen months into the relationship, when Jonathan decided that it was time for a career change, and devoted himself to the realm of landscape architecture. He worked long hours, tired himself out for promotion after promotion. He lost his libido before he even hit thirty-five, and a week before they were due for their second anniversary, Aziraphale had to call it quits.

Then there was sweet Ezra, and Aziraphale can confidently say that that affair has been a happy one. He was a friend of his brother Gabriel, and they met in Church. Aziraphale did so love to hear the songs of worship springing out from his lips. The way he quoted the Bible across different translations and debated the merit of each one above the other. He laid Aziraphale in bed like a feast and whispered praises all over his skin. He called him _angel,_ said it was because of his cherubic face and his head of bouncy white curls. To him, Aziraphale was God's gift from directly above. Aziraphale was the Messiah, and he the one come to wash his feet. They fucked like rabbits. And though Aziraphale never really satisfied his deepest craving out of it, they were together for five years, and they never let the marriage bed grow cold for anything longer than a week all throughout.

To say that he is starting to lose hope at his current age would be most undesirable. He would never doubt the Lord, even if Her plans are for the most part ineffable. She is steadfast in keeping Her promises. _For I know the plans I have for you,_ declared She, once upon a time, _plans to prosper you and not to harm you._

She has always, always been good to him, kept him thoroughly blessed, and he has been a most devoted servant, flinging praises at Her day and night and meditating on Her Word. His faith is intact, and every day he prays. And he prays.

 _God, please send him to me. Send me someone_ **_good._ **

But even with his faith strong and unweathered through the passage of eons, he did not expect that prayer to be granted one evening, in one of the myriads of Gabriel's fundraisers. He holds them at least twice a year, and though they are for a good cause, the entire affair just got tedious sometime after the seventeenth one (Aziraphale lost count after that). But Gabriel is family, of course, and he has no way of weaseling out of his responsibilities. Gabriel even managed to rope him into arranging the food for the event, though this one Aziraphale did not do grudgingly at all. The food in these parties is practically his only enjoyment, and he'll need only the very best to survive the sheer boredom that awaits him in each and every gathering hosted by his hopelessly dull older brother. 

He dearly remembered the delightful selection of food that he had from his friend Anathema's wedding some several months ago, and so he quickly implored her for the favour. She gave him the contact details of the catering service she contracted, and Aziraphale had it all arranged by three swift phone calls with someone by the name of 'Anthony'.

Looking back, he probably should have gone for some personal meetings as well, if only to prepare himself. Because _this_ ... sitting on the round table with some of Gabriel's business partners, his cheeks flushed, cock painfully hard and straining against his trousers while the hot waiter in the slim white suit serves his soup—he should have been _prepared_ for this. 

The waiter— _Anthony,_ as it seems, as soon as he was able to drag his eyes away from those taut sharp cheekbones to the glinting nameplate on his chest—stands impeccably postured by Aziraphale's left shoulder, turning to each person on the table and inquiring after their desired meal. Aziraphale tries very hard to keep still and not glance over at Anthony's perky bum, straining in the confines of his _extremely_ tight trousers. Is it only his imagination, or are Anthony's trousers about seven-and-a-half times tighter than those of his co-workers? The tails of his suit jacket cut high on his slim waist, where rests a tight black cummerbund wrapped all around, making him look impossibly even slimmer.

At last, when he's just about asked everyone else, he turns to Aziraphale, flashing a pointed rich grin above his devilishly handsome jaw.

_This is probably a bad idea, but I would worship him._

"And for you, Mr. Fell? How would you like it?"

_Rough, fast, and merciless._

"I—sorry, what?"

"Your steak, sir?"

"Oh. Medium, _please."_ The last word is barely a squeak. Aziraphale flushes all the way to the tips of his ears and lowers his head, snatching his eyes back to the silverware.

Anthony nods once, and retreats with a wild saunter of his narrow hips. Aziraphale tracks his movement from the corner of his eye, watching muscular thighs strain against those very very tight trousers. Seriously, there has to be some health code violation against the tightness level of his clothes. 

He doesn't even register what everyone else is talking about, and though he was certain that this catering service had superior quality food, he can barely taste anything from what he eats. He's too hyper-aware of Anthony, which is ridiculous. Anthony doesn't even know who he is. They talked on the phone a few times. Normal conversations, of course. But Heavens, if Aziraphale had any idea how _unbearably_ attractive was the face attached to that voice he might have combusted on the spot. 

He breathes deeply, trying to keep his erection at bay. _God, surely not now? Please. I know I have technically been begging you for this every day, but this is the most dreadfully inconvenient occasion._

Anthony, together with another waiter, returns with a tray of steaks. Aziraphale holds his breath again, willing his thoughts to keep still. He keeps his fingers tightly wrung on his lap, and he desperately hopes that the other waiter will be the one to serve him this time.

"Here's your medium, Mr Fell." 

Anthony appears by his side again, retrieving his half-consumed soup bowl and replacing it with a plate of juicy steak. Against his better judgment (and likely borne out of habit), he looks up at the waiter to thank him. The thank you dies partway through on his lips, but _mortifyingly_ he keeps on staring. 

Anthony grins at him, shooting him a wink. "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

_You. On top of me. Pinning me down. Sliding into me. Painting me inside and out with your cum. Fucking me like you don't know how to do anything else._

"M-more water. Please." _God, why am I so thirsty?_

He holds up his half-empty glass, and Anthony nods. 

"Be right back."

This time, Aziraphale shamelessly follows him with his gaze. He watches the inhuman hips swing about on those long, _long_ legs. 

He downs the remaining contents of his glass.

Anthony stops by the door to the kitchens, talking with a couple of other waiters who look about a decade younger than him. Now that he thinks of it, Anthony looks much closer to his own age than his co-workers. They usually hire the young and sprightly for these jobs, but he can't exactly blame them for keeping Anthony, when he's the one probably pushing his fifties and _still_ looking outrageously, criminally smart in that white suit.

He retrieves another tray of food and moves to serve another table, holding it up on one arm with finesse like it weighs nothing. Aziraphale bites his lip. He's stronger than he looks.

_If he pins me onto a wall, would I struggle to be released?_

He shoots more charming smiles down that other table, and a hot spark of jealousy rises in Aziraphale's belly. Like he already owns Anthony. _God, what is happening to me?_

He watches Anthony serve more plates of food for a short while. 

_He has absolutely no right standing next to a platter of delectable food and_ **_still_ ** _be the scrummiest thing on offer._

Anthony shuffles back with the empty tray, walking those long sinewy legs towards the small table by the kitchens to grab a pitcher of water, and Aziraphale hastily looks back at his own hands.

He mentally prepares himself when he feels Anthony approaching him again.

"Sorry for the wait, Mr. Fell," he says smoothly. And _God in Heaven above,_ he leans over Aziraphale's lap, stretching out his arm to pour the water straight into his glass—his delectable arse on full display, an inch away from brushing Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale catches the scent of his perfume. It clouds all the remaining smidge of sense in his brain. 

Realising that it's probably rude to stare at someone's backside without their consent, he drags his gaze back to Anthony's face, a little ways above Aziraphale's head and deeply concentrated on refilling the glass. The very sight transfixes him, and his lips part in agonised _want._

_That side profile belongs on a postage stamp. And Lord, I would lick it._

"Th-thank you. Anthony." He stammers out, and congratulates himself on being able to form a full sentence. 

The glass is finally filled, and Anthony straightens up. His arm brushes Aziraphale's shoulder, sending crackles of heat radiating to his chest, restarting his heart. And oh. _Oh dear, is this cardiac arrest?_ He's been awfully negligent of his cholesterol lately.

Unconsciously, he sways lightly into the fleeting touch, craving more of it somehow. It's dreadfully embarrassing when he catches himself releasing a soft whimper (which he desperately hopes is drowned by the live harpist performing on stage).

Anthony catches still, very briefly, the pads of his fingers digging into Aziraphale's shoulder. 

Aziraphale whips his head up to look at him, and is rendered speechless when he finds Anthony _staring right back._

"Is there anything else you need?"

_Take me. Take me now. On the table. In front of everyone. I don't care. I don't care. I need you. I don't care—_

"Nothing," he replies, smiling weakly.

Anthony nods. "Enjoy your evening, Mr. Fell."

Anthony leaves the table, and when Aziraphale is confident that he's gotten far enough, he stands up, makes some flimsy excuse to the person seated beside him, and strides across the hall. He doesn't look back, but it feels as if there's a sixth sense in him that's still aware of Anthony's general direction. There's the peculiar feeling of someone following him, but he ignores it, chalking it down to lust-driven paranoia. He keeps walking until he reaches a small side-door that leads into an alleyway by the side of the building.

The air outside is bitingly cool, and he leans against the wall, closing his eyes to take in deep and heavy breaths. The cold is a strong slap of sense into his muddled brain. He left his coat inside, and he's standing in the open air in just his long-sleeved shirt, waistcoat, and suit jacket, ending just below his waist. His trousers are too thin, and he taps his leg on the ground, half in anxiety and half to get some warm blood moving in it.

He keeps his eyes closed, his breathing steady, as he wills his raging hard-on to calm down.

 _Lord, why?_ He gets the urge to ask, but the answer comes to him immediately. _Ask, and it shall be given you._

He has made an absolute fool of himself. What must Anthony even think of him now?

_Seek, and ye shall find._

He probably never wants to see Aziraphale again. Great. After all these years, God has granted him his prayers, and he's artfully succeeded in mucking it all up.

_Knock, and it shall be opened unto you._

The door clicks open, letting out a stream of bright light and a chorus of chattering and harp strings for a brief moment, before shutting again.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath in, and a shaky one right back out.

A pair of footsteps rattles the air, scuffing the pavement, growing steadily closer to where he stands.

A growling voice whispers at his neck.

"You’re such a mess, and I haven't even touched you yet."

Slowly, Aziraphale opens his eyes. 

Anthony towers over him, one hand on the wall by his ear, his face mere inches away.

Anthony is staring, gaze half-hooded, shamelessly at his mouth.

It takes a few more seconds to register that this is, in fact, happening. Anthony is crowding him against the wall of a dark alley, hovering over him with a dangerous glint in his eye, looking at him like a demon wandering the desert for forty days, and finding an oasis in Aziraphale to quench his thirst.

Aziraphale bites his lip, and watches as Anthony tracks the movement with hunger in his eyes.

Aziraphale flutters his lashes. "I had no idea you had any such plans."

His response comes in the form of a handsome smirk. "I can tell, you know. You're so transparent. I know what you want."

"What if I was being purposely transparent?" It's a lie, but he doesn't regret saying it when he notes Anthony's darkening gaze, his pupils blowing wide.

Anthony moves a hand to his neck, thumb stroking the soft skin under his jaw and eliciting a pleasant sigh. Aziraphale leans into the touch, the slight movement also brushing their noses together.

"What... what will you do to me?" He asks, his voice small. Anthony's perfume clouds his mind again, counteracting any sense that has been brought back to him when he stepped out into the open air. He's still a little cold, and he's shivering lightly, but it's bearable now with the added heat radiating from Anthony's body, covering him from head to toe.

Anthony leans in, grinning against his cheek, and speaks in a gravelly tone.

"Darling, I'm gonna take whatever I want."

Aziraphale inhales sharply. His knees threaten to give way. He leans further with his back against the wall. Anthony steps forward to maintain their close proximity. They're breathing entirely too hard, the thumb stroking his neck coming up to his mouth, parting his lips. 

Aziraphale is a pool of fire, waiting to be extinguished. But to his dismay, Anthony is barely doing anything else.

He shouldn't want this. At least, not like this. A rough fuck with a handsome man in a dirty alleyway. Aziraphale is a feast, a treasure to be unearthed. Spread out amongst silken sheets and jewels. Made love to like he's a divine being to be worshipped. To be adored and savoured, inch by inch. To be kissed and cuddled and caressed and held.

And yet. 

Anthony's thumb moves past his lips, and he catches the pad in between his teeth, sending the rest of the length plunging into the heat of his mouth.

He hears the hitch in Anthony's breath, and it's such a satisfying victory that he actively moans around his thumb, eagerly sucking on it, hugging each indent with his nimble tongue without breaking eye contact. Anthony stares, utterly transfixed, his hunger growing tenfold.

A sinful smile plays on Anthony's face. So unbearably handsome. Aziraphale wants him, with a desire he has never known all his life. He moans again, releasing Anthony's thumb to hold onto his wrist and lap at his other fingers.

"Fuck," Anthony breathes. He watches Aziraphale swirl his tongue over two long fingers. "You look like an _angel._ Who knew?"

A fraction of his chest shrivels up. He isn't an angel. He isn't a precious morsel of Heaven. Never has a trace of divinity touched any part of his soul. He stills under Anthony's touch.

Anthony slides his hand from his grasp and shoves it into white blond curls, pulling it back to expose the slope of his neck.

"I'm gonna enjoy defiling you. Fucking the divinity out of you." 

Anthony bites into the side of his neck, grazing his teeth, nipping at the flesh. His free hand comes to wrap around his waist, and he sinks into the embrace with another deep moan.

The hand glides from his waist, down to grab a handful of his hips. There's a sting of pain that flashes from it, and Aziraphale heaves a loud gasp. Anthony smirks, sliding his hand further to cup his growing hard-on. 

Aziraphale's mouth falls open, wailing unabashedly.

Anthony chuckles. "You're so loud." He strokes Aziraphale's cock through his trousers with expert fingers. "But you can't be too noisy out here. You understand, angel?"

He nods. "A-Anthony. Please."

"You're a mess." He buries his face into Aziraphale's neck, inhaling deeply. "Wish you could see how you look right now. So eager for me."

Aziraphale keens, rutting himself into Anthony's palm. He knows how debauched he is, and that's only from a few touches. His breathing is ragged, his hair probably sticking out from where Anthony has harshly grabbed it, and he's humping into Anthony's hand, fully-clothed, like a bitch in heat. 

Anthony looks not a hair out of place.

He whimpers.

"I've never had an angel beg for me before," he mumbles into Aziraphale's neck, grazing his nose up behind his ear. "I bet you do it beautifully."

_I can, if you want me to. I'll do anything._

"Would you do that?" Anthony growls, nipping at his ear. "Would you beg for me? Tell me how badly you need me?"

Aziraphale breathes shakily, giving a few desperate nods.

Anthony lands an unexpectedly soft kiss into his temple.

"Use your words, angel."

His eyes squeeze shut. "Yes. Oh _God._ Yes, Anthony. I've never needed anything the way I need this. _Please_ touch me." 

"You're so beautiful like this." Anthony grasps his shoulders, and he whimpers at the loss of pressure on his cock. Then, he's being manhandled to turn around, forehead pressed against the wall.

Anthony grips his hips and pulls him back, leaving him with no choice but to brace his forearms on the wall.

Anthony’s hands move with careful reverence over his waistband, gliding up to his front to unbutton his trousers. Aziraphale hisses as pressure is decreased on his much too confined cock. He's long since grown to full hardness, and he moans when Anthony tugs his trousers and underwear past his hips, leaving him bare and exposed to the cold air.

His cock is hard and leaking, desperate for friction. He tries to move it towards Anthony's hand, but Anthony retreats, moving to grab his arsecheeks, nails digging into the meat.

Aziraphale lets out a yelp, and stops himself before it can get too loud. Behind him, Anthony laughs, squeezing his arse and pulling them apart to expose his quivering hole.

"Everything about you is divine, angel. This arse. These _thighs."_

"Anthony, please. Please."

It's begun to grow cold again, and Aziraphale shivers as cool air moves onto his bare arse. Anthony moves closer, draping his body over him, chest pressed to the entire length of his back while he hitches his hand forward and firmly grabs Aziraphale's member.

Aziraphale bites harshly into his lip to hold back his scream. He's shivering wildly, from the cold and the contrast of heat from Anthony's body, as well as waves of uncontrollable bliss. Anthony pumps his cock, hard and fast, and Aziraphale thrusts wildly into it, meeting him with every movement. His breathing sounds foreign, and he can't even form any words. He's only there to chase his pleasure, to take the offerings of a rough, callous hand on his leaking member, and accept the litany of praises in the filth being whispered into his ear.

"You're going to cum," says Anthony, low and rumbling. "I want to see you unraveled. Look at you. You're an eager mess, and I've barely done anything to you. Barely even scratched the _surface."_

He hisses the last word and bites into his shoulder.

"A-Anthony... Anthony, I'm gonna—"

Anthony slaps a hand over his mouth. It's so large that it covers half of his face. Aziraphale reaches the edge, spilling into Anthony's hand with a scream that ripples in and stings his throat, the sound muffled by Anthony's palm.

Strings of cum litter the wall before him, a few drops touching his trousers now pooled below his knees and held there by the spread of his legs. He breathes heavily, the tendrils of overwhelming pleasure heaving him forward. Anthony catches him with an arm around his chest, placing a few kisses to his shoulder.

"You did so well, angel."

Aziraphale mewls at the praise.

As the fogginess in his brain fades off to a distant pleasant hum, he hears Anthony unzip his trousers. 

He shivers, and it isn't from the cold.

_Almighty God, how your blessings abound._

Anthony grips his hips. "Squeeze your thighs for me, dove."

Aziraphale does so, and the blunt head of Anthony's cock presses into him, sliding in between the scant space, molding to the soft, meaty flesh of his thighs.

"Oh. Oh, _fuck."_ Anthony gasps hoarsely. He gives a few small thrusts, picking up speed while his hands dig into Aziraphale's arsecheeks. "Yes. Yes. So good for me, angel."

Aziraphale releases a whimper, wanting to be good. Wanting to be _better_. He squeezes his thighs as much as he can while Anthony, slicked by his own precome, fucks into him with abandon.

"Anthony," he gasps out, turning around to try and face him. "Inside me, please."

"But I don't have—"

"In my pocket." Aziraphale hisses through his teeth as another gust of cool air hits him. "Quickly. Please."

Anthony bends down to his bunched up trousers, reaching into the pocket for a foil packet and lube. For a few seconds, he stands still, stammering in shock.

"You carry these with you _everywhere?"_

Aziraphale flushes, nodding. This isn't his first dirty fuck after all, but it was never like this. The others have been mere reprieves, done in a flash. No one has ever been this intense with him. No one has ever _praised_ him the way Anthony does. 

He waits until Anthony prepares himself, then there's the press of slicked fingers against his entrance.

"Angel, you're sure?" The distinct falter in his voice is unexpectedly tender. 

He groans, wiggling his arse in the air to emphasise his point. He adjusts his weight on his forearms, gritting his teeth. "Please rail me, Anthony, I am asking _nicely!"_

Anthony doesn't need more prompting. A finger slides inside him, and he readily fucks himself on it, eager to get things moving. He's aware of how desperate he looks, how much of a mess he is as he mewls and sobs and begs for more, but he finds he doesn't care. When Anthony gets to three fingers and grazes his prostate, the pleasure that seizes him into a fiery grip and stiffens his cock once more, is all worship. All _glory_ —glory in the highest form.

 _"Now,_ Anthony.”

The fingers slide out, and he sobs against the loss of contact, the dreadful feeling of emptiness that clutches at him. But Anthony is there to soothe him instantly, a hand sliding from his chest up to grip his neck, squeezing, shortening his breathing, dulling Aziraphale's mind and sending him into what must be a portion of Heaven itself. Anthony slides in, sheathes himself inside him slowly until he's full once again, and even then he doesn't stop. Anthony isn't wide, but he's very long, and briefly Aziraphale wonders what it would be like to choke himself on it. 

"You take me so well, angel," he says breathlessly. "You were made to be fucked. Made to take me in. Don't you agree?"

Aziraphale's response is a keening, urgent whine. Anthony starts to move, thrusting again. In and out. He adjusts his position until he hits the sweet spot, and Aziraphale wants to scream, his jaw coming lax, but no sound comes out against the pressure still around his throat.

He feels so thoroughly used that he doesn't quite know what to do with it. Used and revered, in equal measure. The right balance, given to him after all this time by the _perfect_ lover. Anthony pounds into him, roughly, now that he knows he can take it. The hand not wrapped around his neck comes to grasp his cock and gives it swift strokes.

"You'll cum again, angel," he commands, running his thumb over Aziraphale's head, spreading the slick up his shaft, all while his wild thrusts continue. Aziraphale presses his lips shut to keep from screaming. Galaxies form behind his eyes. "I want you to cum again, and you'll do it because you're a good, pretty angel. So fucking good to me. Because you want to please me. Because you're perfect."

Aziraphale clamps his eyes shut, heaving a few short gasps. 

_My God. You always exceed your blessings. My cup overflows._

_"Anthony!"_ He comes a second time, with tears of gratitude spilling onto his cheeks.

Anthony fucks him through his orgasm, building up until his hips are stuttering and his thrusting wavers. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale's chest, pulling him up so they're pressed back to front. 

"You're so perfect," he mumbles, pressing searing kisses into Aziraphale's hair. With a long, drawn-out sigh, he buries himself deep inside and comes. _"Angel, angel, angel..."_

Aziraphale welcomes him into his heat, suddenly enraged at the barrier of a thin condom that keeps them apart. He wants Anthony to spill inside him, wants his seed deep inside him and to never come out. He wants it to be a part of him, as an offering. Tangible evidence that he is _desired_ and _worshipped._ But as the dredges of his pleasure fade away and his senses slowly come back to him, it occurs to him that he doesn't even know whether Anthony will want to do this again.

Anthony pulls out, and for the next couple of minutes they move in silence, setting themselves back to rights.

Aziraphale turns to face him, if only to get a good look at him, in case this is to be the last time.

"A-Anthony," he says, rather hesitantly, unsure whether he would be welcomed, but it seems a bit rude to just leave without saying anything. "Thank you for that."

For a moment, Anthony looks just as uncertain as himself, but the expression gives way to his usual handsome grin.

"Yeah, that was fun."

Aziraphale blushes, pressing his lips together to suppress a fast-forming grin.

"I hope you also, um, enjoyed yourself."

Rather crudely, Anthony holds up the spoilt condom in his hand. 

"This evidence enough for you?"

Aziraphale bursts into laughter, and it's the most ridiculous exchange he's ever had in what is perhaps the most ridiculous sex he's ever had, but it's so completely, utterly perfect, and he is wonderfully content.

Anthony runs a hand through his copper hair, windswept and sticking out at all angles. "Well, I... I should go back inside now. Still have a job to do."

Aziraphale sags at the reminder of the party. 

"Oh, yes. Yes, I should head in as well. But-but you go first."

 _Will you want to do this again? To see me again?_

He doesn't dare to ask out loud.

Instead, he takes a bold step forward, wraps his arms around Anthony's shoulders, and pulls him into a rough, open-mouthed kiss.

Anthony stiffens in his hold, his hands spread wide, but as Aziraphale angles his head and bites at his lower lip, he settles his palms on Aziraphale's lower back, returning the kiss with equal vigour.

Their tongues meet and slide briefly, before Aziraphale reluctantly pulls away. Fierce satisfaction flickers in his chest when Anthony tries to chase his mouth. He gives in with another soft peck and steps back fully.

"You head in first," he tells Anthony.

"I can't figure out what you are," he replies, and Aziraphale decides that kiss-swollen lips are an even better look on his already perfectly handsome face. "You're an angel. You're kind. But you're also a tease. A slut. A bastard."

Aziraphale licks his lips, the corners of his mouth pressing tight to keep from grinning too hard. 

_Lord. He understands. It's him, isn't it? After all these years, my faith unwavering. You have granted me the desires of my heart._

"I believe you have a job waiting for you inside, my dear," he replies coyly. He can't give too much away, expose himself all at once. He wants to be a mystery, wants to be something that Anthony will want to _unravel_ even more.

"Hope you've had a pleasant evening, Mr. Fell." Anthony steps away, throws the condom into the nearby dumpster, before disappearing into the side-door from where he came.

Aziraphale breathes hard, and in that darkened alleyway, few steps away from a dumpster, minutes after getting the most intense railing he's had in his life, he lifts his head to the heavens and sends a prayer of the deepest gratitude.

He smiles and grabs his phone from his pocket, sliding his thumb over the screen, suddenly remembering that he already has Anthony's number.

He'll come back.

_Glory to God in the highest._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed thirsty Aziraphale, come talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/angelsnuffbox) and/or [ Tumblr!](https://angelsnuffbox.tumblr.com/) for more Crowley thirst like this. Or not, because I'm just really embarrassed now for even making this in the first place 😂
> 
> On one hand I'm so embarrassed at putting the extremes of my Crowley thirst in fic form but on the other hand I'm very satisfied that my first attempt at writing PWP is an ode to White Suit Crowley, or as I lovingly refer to him, Cumbum Daddy* bc he deserves it !!
> 
> *that's short for cummerbund sugarbum daddy ya pervs 
> 
> (I may also have an idea for a sequel to this, with hopefully more plot than this one. Let me know if you're interested in seeing it!)


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